“I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!”

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.

And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.

Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.

I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.

If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.

The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.

First our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.

If heat death is the end of the universe, it really is all about the journey.

Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing.

Any moment might be our last.

To have the truth in your possession you can be found guilty, sentenced to death.

People in general are scared to death of the war and all the exhibition have been a failure, because the rich – don’t want to buy anything.

Water is the life – giver and the death-bringer.

Pain, pleasure and death are no more than a process for existence. The revolutionary struggle in this process is a doorway open to intelligence.

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.